Henry willed himself not to feel irritated when Elyse used “things” to identify an everyday object she should have recognized.
“We discussed this before, remember? Stanley doesn’t open his car door that way. It’s an older model, so he always uses a key.”
Elyse nodded, as if hearing the words for the first time. “Okay, he’s taking out his key. And I look right at him and say . . .”
“STANLEY, do you remember me?”
Stanley Morris looked at the small, young woman who stood in front of him. Probably one of Anna’s babysitters, the girl who used to come over on Friday nights, when she was just starting to walk . . . what, seven years ago now? Or maybe she was the waitress from the bar? Hard to say. His head bobbed up and down, as it so often did when he was trying to be pleasant. He licked his dry lips, about to answer her, still unsure what the right answer was. He started to smile, when a noise startled him. It came from behind; he was certain of that. And it was an angry sound, like the growl of a dog. Yes, definitely angry, Stanley thought, as he started to turn his head. But how could a stray dog get in here? How very strange. It was the last thought of Stanley Morris’s uneventful life.
HENRY slammed the metal cane against Stanley’s skull. The first blow knocked him unconscious, although his legs were still twitching, like a pitiful water beetle after a gargantuan shoe strikes its body, cracking the carapace into tiny fragments.
“Hit him again,” Elyse said in a hoarse whisper. “Now, now,” she cried, her small voice rising in a moan. “He remembered me. I could see it in his eyes.”
Henry didn’t need her urgent whispers of encouragement. When he withdrew the metal tip from Stanley’s forehead, it was covered with blood and brain matter. Only then, did Henry stop. In less than a minute, it was over.
Henry dropped the cane on the garage floor, removed his Latex gloves, and stuffed them in his briefcase along with the plastic trench coat he’d worn over his jeans and tweed jacket.
“Thank you,” was all Elyse said. Then, she ran up the stairs. Henry rubbed his right cheek, as he looked down at Stanley Morris lying on the garage floor. He briefly wondered why she didn’t say, “I love you,” as well.
THE ride to the Westport train station was the perfect segue between Henry’s old life and his future with Elyse. He had bought an engagement ring weeks before, and he liked slipping his hand into his jacket pocket to caress the small, black velvet box.
He started reading the morning papers he bought at Penn Station, and was pleased to see that Stanley’s death was already relegated to a one-paragraph article well past page ten. What was so momentous to him and Elyse was of little concern to the average reader. All in all, it had gone well. Although he had an alibi carefully worked out, no one even questioned him. He was, as always, irrelevant to the main action. This time, his invisibility delighted him.
The only thing that disturbed Henry was the possibility of implicating the building handyman, but he wasn’t even a suspect. Henry was relieved to read that Teddy had been at his physical therapist’s office when Stanley was murdered. He told the police that someone must have taken his cane from the locker in his basement office. The last time he’d used it had been more than a month before.
Henry leaned back in his seat and went to sleep. His last thought was the look on Elyse’s face after the cane hit Stanley’s skull. He could only describe it as joyful.
SHE was waiting for him, as promised, in the lobby of the hotel. Henry noticed the way the other guests looked at him when she ran into his arms. “Yes, she’s mine,” he wanted to shout at them. “Imagine that, can you? This beautiful woman loves me.” But words weren’t necessary; the look on her face said it all.
“I made reservations at a restaurant that overlooks the lake. It’s a little expensive, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Henry looked down at Elyse as he touched the black-velvet jewelry box in his coat pocket. “It sounds perfect,” he said.
That night, they both had more to drink than usual. “In a way, it’s our anniversary,” Henry said, as he refilled Elyse’s wine glass.
“I’ve never felt truly safe before, not as long as he was in the world. But now I do. And you gave that feeling back to me.”
They lifted their glasses in a toast. “To us,” Henry said.
“Forever and ever.” Elyse reached across the table and laced her fingers through Henry’s. As he lifted their joined hands, he felt her fingers tighten in his. Then her eyes widened. Henry had seen that look of terror only once before.
“What is it?”
Elyse nodded in the direction of a middle-aged man sitting at the bar. What first struck Henry was the care the man had taken with his appearance: the sharp part in his freshly clipped, pomaded hair; the perfect, rosy shine of his skin. His hands were immaculate, just like Stanley’s.
Henry tried to keep his voice even. “Elyse. Honey. What’s wrong?”
She bent her face close to Henry’s, that beautiful, perfect face with its penumbra of silver-blonde hair. Her dry lips brushed his right cheek. They were one at last.
“That man. He’s sitting at the table near the bar. Do you see the one I mean?
“Yes. What about him?”
“He’s the one.”
A VAMPIRE IN BROOKLYN
Leigh Neely
METALLICA’S “All Nightmare Long” echoed throughout my room as I buttoned my blouse. The song’s lyrics were about hunting prey at night, which was what I did as a homicide detective in Brooklyn.
I turned down the volume with a sigh, knowing my roommate, who preferred classical music, would complain soon. I’ve always found heavy metal music relaxing, probably because I became a vampire in the seventies, when music was an integral part of my life. It soothed me.
I glanced in the mirror and smiled. I looked good for a thirty-year old woman who had been killed by a psychopath in 1971. He swore he fell in love with me, and so, kept me alive for three weeks, torturing my body with his hands and my soul with his words. Before he left me, he made me vampire.
He became vampire after his first killing spree in London’s East End. The Whitechapel murders and Jack the Ripper had been a puzzle for years, the subject of countless books, and one of the most popular subjects on the Internet. I’d carried the truth inside for too many years. Jack was Dr. Francis Tumblety, a quack who became the first internationally-known serial killer.
I’d chased him since I became a detective, in 1983, the year humans learned vampires really did exist. When a vampire scientist discovered vampire blood could fight blood-borne diseases like AIDS and leukemia, it almost made being vampire legitimate. Vampires donate blood for healing, and humans donate blood for our sustenance.
I grabbed my iPad off its stand and stuffed it into its case. “All Nightmare Long” had been my theme song since my partner and I began working our current case. As two of the top detectives in Brooklyn, we were on a task force for one of the biggest serial murder cases in New York City history.
Nine young women had been snatched from their beds, but only four bodies had been found. Somewhere in Brooklyn, a maniac was killing and mutilating young women and we couldn’t find him. My gut said I already knew him.
Jack had a real love of using a scalpel on women. All the young women’s bodies we had recovered were missing the essential elements that made them women, their uteruses. I knew Jack had a collection from his victims. He’d kept them in small jars he could pack in cases. He was still a bad, bad boy.
I felt his presence at all the crime scenes. Our supernatural connection existed because he was my Maker. It frustrated the hell out of me. I had no doubt he’d laughed at me for years, because I always arrived after he was gone.
I’d investigated his murders in Los Angeles, Seattle, Portland, Nome, Dallas, and Atlanta. Always too late.
I’d hang around, until I heard of another crime spree in another city, and then get a job there. Finally, I stopped chasing and came to New York. I knew he would c
ome here eventually. He loved big cities. This time, I’d be patient and wait for him.
I dropped my purse on the table by the door and reached in the closet to put my hand on the electronic lock that opened my weapons case. I strapped on my gun. Raising my trouser leg, I also fastened a thin wooden stake to my calf with a Velcro strap. It was so much a part of me that I often forgot it was there until I undressed.
When you investigate homicides by supernatural monsters, you must be prepared to kill them. My partner, Joe Burke, had his wood sheathed in a holster on his thigh. We’ve both used them, though it wasn’t an easy thing.
Maybe tonight, I thought, as I did every night when I left for work.
My apartment was really a luxurious bedroom-suite in the beautiful condo of Elsbeth Williams. Her generosity allowed me to live in one of the most coveted places in New York City, a group of elegant condos designed especially for vampires, in an abandoned subway tunnel under City Hall. When I reached the foyer, Elsbeth stepped out of the library.
A wealthy vampire for centuries, she was a ravishing twenty-year-old woman, both calculating and extremely intelligent.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite homicide detective, Alice Landers,” she said with a smile. “I need to talk to you.”
I hurried to the door. “Can’t right now. I’m already late.”
“Wait a sec,” she followed me. “I’m having a dinner party tomorrow night. Can you come?”
“I’m not in a party mood these days,” I said as I opened the door.
“It’s actually a business dinner. I want to talk to you about an offer,” she said. “I’m opening a new resort near Barrow, Alaska, and I want you to be head of security.”
I gave her a confused look, and she laughed.
“You haven’t said anything about needing a job change, but I think it’s time you did something besides keeping a running tally of Jack’s bodies.” She patted my arm. “Think about it.”
“Sure,” I said, knowing I’d stay a cop until Jack died.
I hurried to the elevator and pressed the button several times so it would come faster. My partner was probably parked beside a hydrant with his ‘NYPD on duty’ sign on the dash.
He’d just have to wait, though. I still needed to stop at Distinct Blends for my cup of Go Juice. This special blend of whole blood and plasma, with a squirt of Vitamin B-12 and a dash of iron sprinkles, gave me a little added boost and helped me avoid attacking unsuspecting humans. I still missed caffeine— and a good hunt for a frightened human— but discipline kept me on Go Juice.
Dr. Nancy Morrigan created her blood cafés when the retail spaces in the subway tunnels opened. A former vascular surgeon, Nancy lost her medical license when a procedure went wrong for the son of a Long Island billionaire, who’d donated an entire hospital wing.
She came back with a vengeance, though, starting Distinct Blends. Although human donors are readily available and blood banks sell their products over the Internet, I prefer drinking blood sold closer to home, with the reassurance that everything served at Distinct Blends is safe: free of disease and viruses.
These days, Nancy used her wealth and medical skills to help the poor and homeless in a warehouse clinic near the Brooklyn Bridge. I had volunteered there, looking for clues about Jack. Nancy, who understood something about being victimized, had become a friend and an ally in my hunt.
BY the time I emerged from the tunnel, Burke was angry. I laughed off his grumbling, because Joe Burke was strong, very fit, a great human partner. He’d left the FBI to be a cop. Every case was personal to him, and the Feebies hadn’t liked that attitude. I listened to his griping with only half an ear while I drank breakfast. After a brief meeting with the task force, we took our leads from the tip line and headed out.
As we emerged from the house where two teenagers had thought it would be fun to call the tip line, Burke’s anger exploded again.
“I’m damn sick and tired of this,” he said.
“I know,” I said, “but it’s all we’ve got, and we have to check out every lead.”
My phone rang and interrupted us. I was surprised to see it was Nancy.
“A young girl came into the clinic about an hour ago,” she said. “Her name is Shelby Rawlings. She doesn’t know where she’s been for more than a month. She’s had surgery, a poorly done hysterectomy.”
Grabbing my iPad, I quickly opened the file on the serial killer case.
“She was reported missing four weeks ago. We’re on our way.” I gave Burke the signal for siren and lights.
Nancy sighed. “I knew I’d heard that name. I called an ambulance and sent her to NYC Medical Center. Head over there. I’ll tell them you’re coming.”
I called headquarters, and the captain told us to come back in after we interviewed Shelby Rawlings. I held on as we sped through the back streets, jerking in and out between yellow cabs.
My nostrils flared as we walked through the automatic doors of the hospital. I couldn’t stop the little thrill that ran through me whenever I was near a lot of human blood. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and followed Burke to the information desk. Shelby, we were told, was in surgery, so we went back to talk to the ER doctor who treated her.
I paused for a moment, before stepping into the emergency room. I smelled fresh blood all around me. Like a good vampire, I smeared Vick’s VapoRub under my nose before going through the door. It helped diminish the odor of fresh blood, just like it did for dead bodies. The receptionist checked our badges and told us where to find Dr. Peter Abrams.
He was stitching the head of a sobbing three-year old. When he finished, he joined us.
I clicked on my recorder, so we’d have notes for our files. I hated taking handwritten notes.
“She’s anemic and malnourished. You don’t see that often these days, unless the girl is anorexic,” he said, dropping a chart on the counter. “She’s also bleeding internally from what looks like a botched hysterectomy. Come on.” We walked toward a treatment room. “Our new advertising campaign says patients are seen faster here, which means I gotta keep my ass moving.”
He took another chart from the holder on the wall, and glanced at it before he continued. “The patient’s uterus was removed by laparoscopic surgery. Whoever did it made tiny incisions in her belly, clipping the uterus free and pulling it out through her vagina without any guides. In the process, a blood vessel was snipped. That’s what they’re trying to fix upstairs now, but there’s infection, too,” he said as he laid his hand on the door to another treatment room. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was someone learning how to do the surgery. She’s in bad shape.”
We headed upstairs after we were told Shelby was in recovery. One of the nurses paged the surgeon for us, and he met us outside ICU.
“She’s lost a lot of blood, and she’s very weak. Apparently, she’s received nothing but artificial nourishment for a long time.”
“Did she say anything to you?” I asked quietly.
“She fought the anesthesiologist before we finally got her sedated,” the doctor said.
Exhaustion was evident in the lines on his face. He’d probably been in surgery all day.
“When can we talk to her?” Burke said. He was fidgeting and nervous, ready to go out and look for the person who’d done this to Shelby.
The doctor gave us both a disapproving glare.
“It’s important, Doctor. Did she say anything about where she’d been held, or talk about what happened?”
He rubbed his face and was quiet for a moment.
“She kept talking about getting away, and ‘no more needles.’ You know, she was really afraid of the medical equipment and the room. She was pretty heavily sedated before she even got to the OR, but the minute they brought her in, she started fighting us. She sure doesn’t like being in a hospital.”
As he walked away, my stomach clenched with sickening rage. I understood why Shelby was afraid. Women were nothing more than lab rats to Jack
. He loved terrorizing them, and he did it well. I shivered, remembering the awful things he had done to me.
To my knowledge, I was the only person who’d survived at the hands of Jack the Ripper. Until now. After all these years, was Jack getting sloppy?
Burke and I waited, but Shelby showed no sign of waking up. We checked in with the office, and Captain Campbell told us her parents were being brought to the hospital. While officers canvassed the area near Nancy’s clinic, Burke and I talked with Shelby’s distraught parents. They’d been searching for her ever since she didn’t come home from work.
The night was fading, and my frustration was building. I knew Jack was out there, perhaps already with another victim. But he had broken his pattern and let this one get away. He could also be on his way to another city by now.
Burke dropped me off at the entrance to my tunnel around four a.m., and I grabbed another cup from Distinct Blends to take home with me, hoping it would help me relax. When that didn’t help, I decided I needed some air. The weather was clear and crisp; it was a good night for a quick flight before dawn. I finished my drink and dressed in black from head to toe.
Sometimes, I need to be vampire.
WHEN I emerged from the tunnel again, the streets were quiet. I walked down Park Row to a shadowy area, where I slipped out of sight and rose on a gust of power.
I swept up and away, reveling in the beauty of flight. The stars were bright, and I watched an airliner fly overhead and laughed at the silly humans who would never experience this.
Though I often longed to see the sun, I loved New York City at night— bright lights, big city.
Without conscious thought, I flew straight to the area where Shelby showed up at the clinic.
I glanced down. The Brooklyn Bridge was lit up like an amusement-park ride. When John Roebling dreamed of this vast span in the 1830s, I was sure he never imagined anyone viewing it from this angle.
By the time the bridge was complete in 1883, Roebling was dead, and his son, Washington, was crippled by Caisson’s disease, ‘the bends.’ Washington actually finished the bridge by watching construction from his Brooklyn apartment, relaying messages to his crew through his wife, Emily.
Fresh Slices Page 16
